


where is he?

by janie_tangerine



Series: hearts fic thing series [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (mentioned in passing but somewhat importantish), Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hearts, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Multi, Quite Literally, Robb Ships It, Robb Stark is a Gift, Sandor Clegane Needs a Hug, Scars, Singing, Soulmates, Spitefic, THAT KIND OF FITS OKAY LET SANSA HAVE IT, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love's Kiss, pre-jon/ygritte/sam/gilly/tormund that will happen someday, sansa stark wants her love story and she damn well will get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Oh,” Father says, “whatever happened to him, the gods wouldn’t let you have someone unworthy of you. I’m sure he’s brave and strong and gentle. The kind of knight you would deserve.”He kisses her hair and Sansa smiles at it, but when he’s gone she stands up and puts her hands on both sides of that heart again. It’s warm. The dead side stays as dead as before, red and dark and with sealed cracks all over.“Where are you?” She asks, not getting a reply.Gods, she doesn’t know what happened to him to cause this, but — but she wants to know where he is so much, because she’s sure that she could do something more if only she knew —That’s no matter, though. If there is something she’s sure of, is that it feels right for her. It feels right when she touches it, it feels right when she holds it to her chest, it feels right when it beats faster, and it feels right when it becomes a bit brighter every time she sings to it.He is somewhere. One day, he’ll find her, or she’ll find him.Or: in which the heart Sansa gets is in fairly bad shape, but that never stopped a good love story, after all.
Relationships: Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Series: hearts fic thing series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623322
Comments: 46
Kudos: 326
Collections: COWT - Clash Of the Writing Titans/Chronicles Of Words and Trials





	where is he?

**Author's Note:**

> HEEEY SO, third round of the hearts thing series, admittedly this wasn't asked or prompted by anyone but after the aforementioned sansan drama I wanted to write it for myself and it fit for a challenge I'm doing so what the hell, here we go, have the sansan installment. It implies the previous two but you don't have to read them to get this since it's pretty much explained and it has hints of a couple others that will happen asap. In case anyone wants to know the premise, it's from an anon who came up with it for jb, it was _someone's heart always end up with the person they're meant to be with. It doesn't happen often, but it does. The day Jaime kills Aerys is the day he stops feeling his heart beating against his chest. People call him stuff and he thinks he must be heartless cuz he no longer has a heart. He doesn't know that Brienne of Tarth is the one who has his heart and the day they meet, she's supposed to give it back. But that doesn't happen until much later._ Basically just know people get their soulmates's hearts at some point and you're good XD (also if you don't want to catch up with the jb fic, for this verse's purposes jc broke up just after aerys on account of her not having gotten his heart so the children are all robert's and there's no coup, also tyrion and bronn are soulmates but no one knows that at this point except for them)
> 
> That said, nothing belongs to me as usual, the lyrics for _Florian and Jonquil_ are from [the Starlings's version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Aj51ZfvafQ) (thanks guys I can't write songs for shit xD) and the title is... from a pretty damn bad italian song I had to use/take as an inspiration for the aforementioned challenge so just please ignore it if it's subpar and see you all soon with either more spite or more of this or hopefully more telenovela. We'll see. xD *saunters back downwards*

When on the evening of her fifth name day Sansa goes back upstairs with a smile plastered on her face — she had a _great_ name day, and she can’t wait to try all the new dresses she was given — the last thing she expects is seeing that _something_ under the covers of her bed is glowing red.

She tears herself from her mother’s grasp and runs towards it, delighted at the sight — she _knows_ what it means, thank you very much, she _has_ heard the songs and she can’t believe she is getting a heart _this early_ , and tears away the covers in a very unladylike motion, completely forgetting her manners for a moment.

And then she sees _it_.

It’s not just that it’s _large_ , it doesn’t fit into both of her hands when she reaches out to hold it, but — _half_ of it is blood red, and it’s not beating at all, while the other half _does_ , and it’s… a beautiful dark golden color with some grey and red swirling beneath. When she touches it, it’s warm, but she can’t help the wave of sadness taking hold of her, so _much_ that she lets the heart drop back on the mattress.

“Why is he so sad?” Sansa asks as her mother moves closer to the bed. She tries to touch the heart, but she immediately takes her hand away — it burns, or so she says.

“I don’t know,” she replies, shaking his head. “But — gods, half of it doesn’t beat at all. What is even — we should probably call your father.”

She goes to get him, and Sansa stares at the heart instead, reaching for it again. Now she _expects_ it, and when she touches it… it’s still warm and it only beats on one side, but it’s a _strong_ beat. And while she’s sure the red shouldn’t be there, something tells her it shouldn’t, that dark gold and grey hue is… beautiful, she thinks. Also, she _has_ heard the songs _and_ the stories. While broken hearts aren’t uncommon, when they’re really _this_ bad off, it means that the other person has suffered so much they couldn’t take it anymore, and it’s up to who receives them to try and help them out before meeting them.

Sansa, who has heard a _lot_ of songs about beautiful maidens healing the heart of their gallant knights before meeting them, feels that first sensation of despair give way to something else. Why should she despair, when the gods are telling her _she_ should heal it?

By the time their parents are back, she has her mind made and she’s grinning hard enough to hurt.

“Huh,” Father says at the sight, “you’re happy about it now?”

“Why not?” She says. “It looks like it’s doing bad, bad, but it means _I_ get to heal it, right? Like in the songs.”

“… I suppose that you can see it like that,” he says, smiling not so thinly. Mother sends the both of them a fond but resigned look.

“I suppose,” she says, “that you’re keeping it here, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am!” She protests.

When they leave after making sure she’s settled and under the covers, she immediately reaches for it — they had placed it on the nightstand, but it looked so… lonely standing over there, and she can feel the sadness radiating from it.

She curls around it, noting that it’s large enough that it reaches her elbow when she pulls it against her chest.

 _If it’s this huge,_ she thinks, _there is no way it can belong to someone who doesn’t deserve love_.

She wonders who he is, _where_ he is. She knows it’s unlikely they’ll meet for a long time, but that’s quite all right. She will take her time with it.

— —

“Gods,” Robb says when he sees it for the first time, a few days later, “how _huge_ is this?”

“Isn’t it?” Sansa replies. She’s kind of glad it is. It might not be _the usual_ kind of heart people get, but she likes that. The more she thinks about it, the more it feels like a _real_ song. Regular hearts are for everyone, but one like _this_? It’s special. She just knows it is.

“I’m more worried that half of it looks dead,” Robb says, shaking his head.

“The other half is _fine_ ,” she says. “And see if I can’t make it beat again.”

“Oh,” he says, “I absolutely don’t doubt that if _anyone_ can do that, it would be you. Good luck, I guess.”

“Aren’t you worried that you didn’t get yours yet?” She asks then, noticing that Robb is looking at it a bit wistfully.

“No,” he says. “Come on, _you_ want to think about your _future husband_ , that’s your thing, but I think I’m fine like this.”

He _does_ sound like he isn’t telling the entire truth.

But it’s also obvious he won’t tell if she tries to get it out of him, so she doesn’t press. That’s quite all right. She has to show it to everyone else now.

— —

The first few months, nothing changes much except that maybe the red part of it becomes… less. Maybe. She’s not so sure, but Robb agrees, even if it isn’t very much. It’s kind of frustrating because she can feel that whoever’s the owner he’s sad all the time, and obviously keeping it under the covers at night doesn’t help that much more.

Then she hears Mother sing to Arya as she passes in front of their parents’s room one morning and she stops in the middle of the hallway.

Maybe _that_ wouldn’t be a bad idea.

She goes to her sewing lessons, it wouldn’t be proper to miss them even if she’s tempted, and then goes to Luwin’s history lesson with Robb and Jon, and then more sewing, and when Septa Mordane asks her if she thinks it’s wise to just stare at that heart all the time she’s not otherwise occupied, she looks back at her in outrage. “Of course,” she says. “If he’s my intended, I _should_ keep an eye on it.”

Septa Mordane lets her go and Sansa goes back to her room.

The heart is still there, half-beating on her nightstand. She takes it, moves it to her legs, stares down at it.

“I’m sure you _would_ love _Florian and Jonquil_ ,” she says, and starts to sing it softly, her fingers caressing both parts of that heart.

It becomes slightly warmer as she does. And the red recedes a bit.

 _Oh_ , Sansa thinks, smiling wider. _Then he likes that_.

Good.

She loves singing, after all.

— —

She sings to him every night from then on. _Florian and Jonquil_ , of course, but also _Maiden, Mother and Crone_ , sometimes _The Mother’s Tears_ even if that one doesn’t get his heart warmer, so she drops it fairly soon. _My Featherbed_ also makes it beat faster and burn hotter, _Hands of Gold_ as well though not as much, and _Winterfell’s Rose_ , too. Arya makes fun of her for it the moment she realizes what’s the point, but Sansa doesn’t listen to her — it’s not _her_ business and if she doesn’t get the point, whatever. It’s _Sansa’s_ intended, not hers. And it’s not as if she can explain how it feels when suddenly the red in the lively side of the heart retreats every time she sings and that heart becomes warmer and it beats a bit faster, and maybe it takes her two years to notice that _some_ of the red that went away isn’t coming back.

 _So it’s working_ , she thinks in delight. It’s a hard work, sure, because it never shows definitive signs of improvement, but she’s sure it will be rewarded eventually. And it’s not a true love story if you don’t work for the happy ending, right?

— —

“How do you think _he_ might look like?” She asks Father on her ninth name day. They’re alone in her room, he came to say goodnight after Mother finished brushing her hair, and the heart is still resting on her nightstand. The red is still there, but definitely less than it was years ago. The dead half is still dead, though. And she can still feel sadness radiating from it every other moment, but still. _Still_. It’s better. Once it was downright despair.

“Oh,” Father says, “whatever happened to him, the gods wouldn’t let you have someone unworthy of you. I’m sure he’s brave and strong and gentle. The kind of knight _you_ would deserve.”

He kisses her hair and Sansa smiles at it, but when he’s gone she stands up and puts her hands on both sides of that heart again. It’s warm. The dead side stays as dead as before, red and dark and with sealed cracks all over.

“Where are you?” She asks, not getting a reply.

Gods, she doesn’t know what happened to him to cause _this_ , but — but she wants to know where he is so much, because she’s sure that she could do something more if only she _knew_ —

That’s no matter, though. If there is something she’s sure of, is that it feels right for her. It feels right when she touches it, it feels right when she holds it to her chest, it feels right when it beats faster, and it feels right when it becomes a bit brighter every time she sings to it.

He is _somewhere_. One day, he’ll find her, or she’ll find him.

Until then, she’s _not_ going to give up on it, and patience if Arya and her septa obviously think it’s a waste of time.

— —

“Are you _sure_ about this?” Jeyne asks Sansa on the day she turns two and ten. “I mean, it does look… a bit better. But it’s not _changing_.”

“Of course it’s not,” Sansa protests, “it can’t if he’s… who knows where and I’m _here_. He definitely is not in the North.” She has come to that conclusion after a long time thinking about it, but — well. The man is definitely not in Winterfell, and she knows all of Father’s bannermen, and she’s plenty sure he’s not in between any of them either. Father agreed on not promising her to anyone until they find out who the man is, and she knows he’s had questions about it, but she knows she couldn’t stomach being promised to someone that’s not _him_ , not when she’s seen that heart beat faster and heal ever so slightly and about perk at the sound of her voice — now it turns a bit brighter whenever she sings to it or talks to it, and — she can’t conceive that. _She can’t_.

“True,” Jeyne says, looking at it again. It’s beating slowly. Just one side, of course. “Still, it’s been a long time. You really don’t mind?”

“Of course I don’t,” Sansa answers, not even thinking about it. “He’s the right one. I _know_ he is. I don’t mind waiting.”

That… maybe that’s not true. Maybe it’s been a long time and she’s starting to wonder when they’re going to find each other.

Still, she knows fate has always a way. The songs can’t be wrong about _that_.

Still. She wonders _where is he_ every other time she sings to him at night, feeling that sadness leave for a moment or two, and so what if she still sleeps curled around it once in a while? Now it doesn’t feel as large as it used to, of course, she grew up meanwhile, but it’s still so much bigger than the average, and she can’t help thinking, _who’d do anything to you to make this happen?_

— —

A month later, Robb wakes up with a heart in his bed and his own missing.

Theon _also_ wakes up with a heart in his bed and his own missing.

The moment it’s obvious that they have each others’s, the entire castle about forgets about Sansa and her still-missing-intended because _of course_ that might cause a few issues, and now she understands why Robb never seemed too bothered that he didn’t get his.

 _Oh_ , Sansa wonders, _was that because he liked Theon all along_?

That’s most likely it, she deduces, and throughout the next month she learns a few things.

First of all, _her_ heart is definitely bigger than usual — she gets to see both her brother’s and Theon’s, and Robb’s is half its size and Theon’s more or less the same. She also notices that her brother’s heart is the same Tully auburn as his hair, but… it’s not broken. It’s just _red_. Theon’s… well. It’s black and gold and it _does_ have a few red swirls dancing inside it, but the moment Robb touches it they disappear. _Her_ heart is not the usual size and now she definitely has a comparison for it.

Secondly… _well_.

At the beginning, there’s a conversation with both Robb and Theon behind closed doors that only her parents and Luwin are prone to. When they leave the room, the hearts are nowhere to be seen and both Robb and Theon look like the Stranger touched them. Sansa figures that they just gave each other their respective hearts back and have been told to not advertise what happened.

The next day, both of them wake up without a beating heart and with the other’s nearby.

They do the exchange another three times.

Every single time it doesn’t stick.

There’s another conversation behind closed doors. She doesn’t hear what happens, just Robb screaming something and an argument, and then there’s silence, and then when they walk out of it both of them look like they just fought the worst battle of their lives but they’re smiling at each other, their hands clenched together, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Theon smile like that at _anyone_.

She asks Robb after.

“Can… you tell me what happened?”

He shrugs. “Not the details. I told Theon I wouldn’t. But — well. I had to convince them that even if it meant trouble when it comes to his father and why he’s here, and even if it meant my hand wasn’t available for any matches, we couldn’t… just undo it.”

“How was it?”

“Bad. I mean, not having his heart, _that_ was good, but I could feel everything he did and I had no idea he also — well. Felt about me the same way I did. And when we had to take our own hearts back figuring we should ignore who they belonged to… it felt like I was being torn apart inside.” He shakes his head. “Sansa, I — I don’t know who in the Seven Hells is your man, but believe me, if it turns out being someone not noble enough or — or anyone that others might object to, if you need someone to champion your cause just tell me. I — it was horrible. I couldn’t bear to know that any of you was in the same situation.”

Sansa hugs him at that, and he hugs her back, and she can feel that his heart is beating properly now.

“How does it feel to not have one?” She asks.

He shrugs. “It’s strange. On one side, it’s — you feel _less_ and everything looks not as important, but then again, I knew where mine was at once. I didn’t have to stay without for long. But — well. I could feel it when Theon was holding it. If you want to ask whether your intended feels you, believe me, he does.”

Good, Sansa thinks.

 _Where is he_ , she thinks miserably again. _Where is he?_

— —

Two months later, things calm down on that front, and then Jon wakes up without a heart and gets _four_ at the same time.

“What in the Seven Hells,” Father says as they all group in Jon’s room, where he’s staring in utter confusion at the sight in front of him.

 _None_ of the hearts in front of him are as large as Robb’s or Theon’s were, it’s as if they’re not _whole_ , but.

There’s a light brown one, large enough, with red swirls all over.

There’s a way smaller light blue one that’s also _almost_ drowned in red, but you can see the color underneath.

Then there’s another one of a bright red color sort of like Robb’s, in the sense that it’s not red because it’s _hurt_ , which is… larger than the light brown one. Not as much as Robb and Theon’s were, but close to it.

The fourth is likewise about the same size, but it’s the bright red of flames, with some orange and gold swirling in, and it’s definitely not because it’s _hurt_.

“Uhm,” Sansa says while everyone else just _stares_ , Arya first and foremost, “Jon, perhaps… you have _four_ of them?”

“Seven bloody hells,” Jon says, sounding like he wants to faint, and no one tells him to not curse in front of the younger kids.

From that point on, _he_ is the most prevalent subject of castle talk — Sansa is fairly sure half of the maids are betting on who could be _the four people his heart might have gone to_ , and Jon obviously hates it, but he says nothing and pretends to laugh when Robb and Theon tease him about it, and while it’s probably not very courteous of her… she’s kind of glad that no one is paying attention to her anymore.

Every evening, she still puts her _huge_ heart on her knees and sings to it.

He still likes _Florian and Jonquil_ best.

She’s sure that he’s as brave and strong and gentle as Father says he is.

After all, no one whose favorite song is _that_ one could not be. That’s just impossible.

She smiles down at it, fingers trailing over the beating half as she sings.

 _Where is he_ , she thinks for the umpteenth time.

Gods, she hopes she finds him soon.

— —

A few months after she turns four and ten, there are ravens arriving in Winterfell from King’s Landing.

The entire castle and the entire village quickly get absolutely enthralled with the news, because those ravens that come each week are what the songs are _made of_ — so, this young girl who wanted to be a knight or _something_ showed up at a melee whose final prize was getting in Lord Renly Baratheon’s guard, and she won it, but she was denied the prize. That was in the first raven.

(“Of course,” Arya says when she hears _that_. “Figures if they’d have the guts to do it.”)

That’s not the point, though. The point, the raven says, is that she crowned _the kingslayer_ King of Love and Beauty, and then it turned out that _she_ had had his heart all along. That was partially in the first raven and partially in the second.

In that one, the King also informs the realm that Ser Jaime has in fact left the Kingsguard after unveiling the truth about the circumstances of Aerys’s death, and it sounds like the man had actually saved the entire city by killing him, so he had spent years being reviled for something he never did and calling him _Kingslayer_ had been unfair at best. Father doesn’t leave the room for one day after learning _that_.

In the next raven, it says that Ser Jaime and the lady knight, Brienne of Tarth, have left the city and are apparently… going to roam Westeros for a while as hedge knights.

“Why would she need a man to do it,” Arya protests, even if she sounds maybe a bit envious as she hears it. As if she couldn’t do it _with_ a man, Sansa thinks, and then lets Arya brood on her own about it.

Because Sansa, meanwhile, can’t get over how _romantic_ it is.

“I mean,” she tells Jeyne, “it’s just… such a _songworthy_ thing, that she kept his heart this long and then she realized he was better than everyone else thought without even needing to ask, and she made him happy again all at once! Gods, I hope they show up here at some point, I would have so many questions for her.”

“What,” Jeyne laughs, “like asking how to take care of _your_ heart better while you wait for your dashing knight to show up, since she had experience?”

“Well, why not?” Sansa replies. “I could. And I would. But I mean — imagine _healing the Kingslayer_ out of everyone. It’s… so beautiful.”

“Well… yes, it is,” Jeyne agrees. “Do you think we’ll hear songs about it soon?”

“Oh, _absolutely_ ,” Sansa smiles. She can’t wait. It was _such_ a romantic thing, of course there will be songs. A lot of them.

Meanwhile… _her_ intended is nowhere to be seen. _Where are you_ , she mouths at him that evening before singing _My Featherbed_ , noticing that it looks… a _bit_ less red now.

Well then.

She’s waited until now.

She can wait some more.

_But where is he?_

— —

By the time multiple songs about both Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth are making the rounds as far as Winterfell, Sansa has turned five and ten, no one is wiser about who could Jon’s _four_ soulmates be, her father keeps on exchanging ravens with the Iron Islands with the face of a man who would rather talk to the Stranger himself, and the King says the court will visit Winterfell.

Sansa is excited beyond belief — maybe _this_ is the right time. After all, if _he_ is not in the North, who says he’s not with the court? The fact that the heart seems to be just a bit brighter the day she gets the announcement, even if maybe she’s making it up, kind of suggests she’s right. She _could_ be. She doesn’t know for sure, but — it could be time. Gods, she hopes it will be, or she’s going to have to hire some hedge knight to find him at this point. Admittedly, Lannister and Tarth are doing just _that_ these days so if they ever passy by —

Sansa shakes her head, trying to not get ahead of herself. It’s not like either of them would visit Winterfell when _the court_ is visiting, too. She’ll just have to see what happens.

If meanwhile she gets her best dresses ready and steadfastly sings _Florian and Jonquil_ to him every night, no one can blame her for it.

— —

The day the court arrives in Winterfell, the first thing Sansa notices is that the king looks overjoyed to see her father, while the queen — well. The queen looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Her younger children are walking a bit back with both her brother Tyrion and what looks like his sellsword, and Sansa is kind of confused about _that_ because that’s not exactly the usual protocol, while Joffrey Baratheon, the heir to the throne, is — _well_.

He’s certainly handsome, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair, _but_ when he introduces himself to her there’s a certain air to him, as if he thinks he’s paying her a favor, and so Sansa is courteous as she should be, but doesn’t put any effort into smiling at him for real, and she can see that Robb has had the exact same impression. That is, not counting Arya who downright scoffs at him, and she can see _that_ can get bad.

Then she gasps when just after the king finally lets Father go he looks at her and then at Joffrey, and —

“Ned,” he says, “I was wondering about maybe our two families _finally_ joining.”

Sansa, who has immediately guessed what he’s aiming at, tries to school her face into not looking panicked —

“Sadly,” Father says, “as much as I would love it, she’s had… someone else’s heart for a very long time, unless Joffrey doesn’t —”

“No,” Robert says, sounding disappointed. “He still most definitely has his. And you still don’t know who the heart in question belongs to?”

“Not yet,” Father confirms. “But — well. I couldn’t promise her to anyone until I know.”

“Of course, of course,” the King says in disappointment, and then they move ahead and Sansa turns so she can follow them inside.

“Good for her,” she hears someone murmuring from… somewhere behind her.

It was a man’s voice, so low she barely heard it, just a bit more than a rasp —

She turns. She can’t figure out who it was.

But it felt… _different_.

Sansa’s throat works up and down, up and down, and then she follows the rest of the party inside.

— —

Dinner goes as well as it could, under the circumstances. Robb whispers to her that he agrees that the Queen and Joffrey definitely _don’t_ want to be here, and when she sings _Winterfell’s Rose_ to her heart lately, she feels… that it’s sadder than usual, and the red that went away months ago has come back. Just a bit.

She wipes her eyes, hating that she feels like crying and she doesn’t quite know why.

Tomorrow she’ll take a better look at the rest of the party. Maybe she’ll get Robb to help her out.

— —

Turns out, she _doesn’t_ have to do that, because the next morning, she walks into the courtyard to a downright mess.

Specifically: Arya is screaming at Joffrey and Robb is holding her back even if he looks murderous, Theon is on the side looking ready to make sure Robb _doesn’t_ stop holding her back, one of those children that Arya befriends every other moment, Sansa thinks he’s the butcher’s son, is crying on the side and Joffrey is screaming at someone that he wants that little cunt _dead_ , and wait, why would Joffrey call anyone _Hound_ , there are no dogs around here, aren’t they —

“I won’t kill anyone for _this_ if it’s not a royal order,” the same voice she heard yesterday says, and —

Sansa raises her eyes to the man at Joffrey’s side.

He’s tall, she notices. So very tall, with enormous shoulders, and he’s wearing armor and nondescript brown and gray clothing even if someone with the court should dress better, she thinks, but then she sees his _face_ and —

Oh.

He has a pair of beautiful large gray eyes and has luscious black hair falling up to his shoulders, but she barely notices them as she sees that half of it is one huge burn scar, bad enough that he doesn’t have one ear and the entire skin is covered in red, mangled flesh from which maybe a bit of white bone peeks out from the cheek, taking part of his nose, too, and, unbidden, her thoughts go to the heart she left beating in her room, and —

Gods.

It’s — half of it is dead and scarred _like his face_ , and —

She’s feeling it. She’s _feeling it_ , everything is screaming that it’s _him_ , and then Joffrey says that since he’s _his_ guard he should do as he says, and at that point Theon leaves the premises and comes back not long later with both Father _and_ the king, good thing that, while Sansa stays stuck to the side, unable to move, and then it turns out that Arya and the butcher’s son were playing at swords and sticks or _something_ and Joffrey got caught in it and the other boy mistakenly hit him.

Who would even want someone dead for _that_ , Sansa wonders, as much as she doesn’t get Arya’s antics half of the time.

Thankfully, no one dies for _that_ — Joffrey keeps on complaining but both men see that it was nothing to scream that much about, Arya gets a reprimand, the kid swears to hell and back he’s never going to do it again and everyone leaves the premises.

“Robb,” Sansa tells him, moving closer as soon as the scene is cleared. “I need to talk to you.”

“… All right,” he says, and follows her up to her room.

— —

“Who was Joffrey’s guard?” She asks.

“Who, the Hound?”

Sansa feels an immediate pang of distaste clutching her stomach the moment Robb says the name. “Yes, _him_. I am quite sure he must have a _real_ name.”

“Sandor Clegane,” Robb immediately says, and oh, _that_ feels right. “He’s… well, Joffrey’s guard, yes, but he was Queen Cersei’s first, I think. His brother Gregor was involved in the sack of King’s Landing and no one wants anything to do with _him_ , since — well. He’s the one —”

“The one who killed Princess Elia, wasn’t he,” Sansa says, suddenly remembering the name.

“Yes,” Robb confirms. “He, uh, well. He has a pretty fearsome reputation, when it comes to being a great swordsman, even if apparently he’s very… well-met in court, I guess. No one quite knows how _Sandor_ Clegane got those scars, but — Sansa, why are you asking?”

She thinks she’s going to faint. Then she smiles and moves away, letting Robb see the heart on her nightstand. Now it all makes sense.

First of all, why _half of it_ isn’t beating.

“Robb,” she wheezes, “look at _that_.”

She can see her brother doing the math _very_ fast, but after all, just after talking about the man… well. It’s _obvious_ now. It’s _huge_ , and half of it looks like scar tissue, and she thinks his House has gold in its sigil, and he had grey eyes, _exactly the same shade as that light_.

“Well,” Robb says after a long, long silence, “now _this_ might pose a few problems. Are you sure…?”

“I felt it,” she says. “I _felt_ it. But — I’ve had it for so long. And he’s — Robb, you can’t know, but now I think I get why it felt sad since I’ve had it. He can’t be as bad as he might look. And he _didn’t_ kill Arya’s friend before now, did he?”

Robb shakes his head. “No, he didn’t.” He breathes in, then looks back at her. “Well, I swore I was going to help you, I _will_. And for one, I think you have to talk to him first and foremost. See if — well. If it seals it. And how _he_ is. Then we can, uh, try and see what we can do. Just, I’m going to Mother’s and I’ll tell them that after what happened today maybe it’s not the right time to keep the usual arranged seats and that Arya doesn’t want to be next to Joffrey but she’d rather have the man who _didn’t_ kill her friend and that you should be with her or — something like that. Then we’re seeing each other later and discuss it, all right?”

“Thank you,” she says, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “Thank you.”

It’s… a good plan. And he’s right. She has to talk to him first.

— —

Somehow, Robb manages to make it work — that evening, both she and Arya are seated right next to Clegane while Robb is at _her_ supposed place at the main table. _You owe me_ , he whispers as they walk inside the room, and when Sansa sits next to — to _him_ , it’s… she doesn’t even know how to describe it, but it feels like she’s supposed to be there, and she notices that he doesn’t even look at her after she does.

“Good evening, ser,” she says, trying to strike a conversation.

He barely even turns to her, careful to not show the burned part of his face. “I’m no ser,” he says, sounding _tired_. “No need for that.”

She almost flinches. He sounds like he can’t believe she’s even talking to him, but also like the _ser_ was an insult.

“It was a good thing, what you did before.” She presses on. “Others would have just… followed orders.”

He glances at her, still trying to hide his face under his hair. She wishes he _wouldn’t_ —

“He was a fucking child.” He stops, then shrugs. “Beg your pardon. I’d like to think I’m better than that, whatever the fuck everyone else thinks.”

“Why,” Sansa says, seeing an opening, “what does _everyone else think_?”

He snorts. “Don’t you hear court talk here in the North? Fucking good for you. And just hope that whoever’s the reason your father is _not_ marrying you to that prick,” he nods towards the main table, his voice dropping down, “isn’t from the bloody court either. You’re only lucky to never have shit to do with him.”

He sounds — like someone who used to be _very_ angry but doesn’t have the strength to be anymore.

Sansa desperately feels like touching his hand as it twitches on the table. “We don’t hear court talk.”

“Much fucking better for you.” He says, and then he says nothing, but Sansa — Sansa _feels_ her stomach clench in pain. Gods, it _has_ to be him, it has —

“Definitely,” she agrees, and proceeds to eat.

— —

She was supposed to talk to Robb after.

That is, until she hears a couple of the royal guards talking in between themselves on the side.

“Has Lord Stark’s daughter gone mad, talking to _the Hound_ like that?” One of them says.

Sansa’s stomach contorts in pain all over again. He has a _name_ , why can’t they use it?

“Don’t know,” the other replies. “Surely she has guts. Why would she, I’ve got no bloody clue. That beast’s been heartless for _years_ , at this point it’s just surprising he didn’t outright murder that child.”

“You can say it,” the first one goes on. “Seven Hells, every time I see that man I feel like running in the fucking opposite direction. And he keeps on looking sour his brother’s knighted — at least his brother’s not damn heartless.”

“I _know_. Scary as he might be, at least you know where you stand with him,” the second guard agrees, and Sansa —

She breaks into a run, turns around the wall of the castle and falls to her knees.

Robb finds her minutes later as she takes ragged breaths after having thrown up her lunch.

“It’s him,” she says. “It’s _him_ , I know, I mean, I felt it as we ate but then I passed near two guards who were saying he was some kind of monster and I felt — sick.” Her voice is barely audible right now. “And I don’t think he would hear me out if I asked him to come up to my room. What do I do? I can’t exactly show up with — with _it_ as we break our fast, can I?”

“No,” Robb shakes his head, “that wouldn’t do. But hey, don’t — calm down. We _will_ figure this out. Mostly, did he give you… a bad feeling?”

“No,” she says at once. “He’s just… as if he gave up on it, I think. I mean, he sounded like it. But I know he hasn’t. I could _see_ it.”

Robb nods, helping her to stand. “Let’s go upstairs. Then we can think about it.”

When they do, neither of them misses that the heart on Sansa’s windowsill is beating _faster_ than usual.

— —

“Very well,” Robb says, “we have to be smart about this. I suppose you don’t want to go up to him and just —”

“Tell him? He wouldn’t believe me. I can feel that.”

“I figured,” he says. “Too bad we can’t hold a tourney. He probably would win, all things —”

“Yes, and crown _me_? Doubtful,” she shakes her head. “And even if he did, I couldn’t say it _then_. Gods, Brienne of Tarth had it way easier in the songs.”

“Don’t be like _that_ ,” Robb says, patting her shoulder. “Right. Listen, for now let’s just keep our eyes open, but tomorrow all the men in the castle should go out for a hunt. I’ll just go near him and try to talk to him and so on, and if I see a good opening I will take it and let you know, all right?”

She nods. “Thank you,” she says, “and please don’t tell Father —”

“I won’t,” he says. “I know it would be a bad idea.”

Sansa _does_ sing _Florian and Jonquil_ later, her hands brushing over that beating light.

It’s ridiculous that now she knows where he is… but she can’t do anything about it.

— —

The next morning, she’s woken up by frantic knocking on her door.

She immediately tumbles off the bed, opening the door at once, and Robb’s out there, looking like he has barely had time to put on his clothing.

“Sansa,” he breathes, “you _owe me_ so much, I swear —”

“Wait, _what_ , how — what happened?” She asks, closing the door. “And what time is it even —”

“No one has broken their fast already, but — well. I was up early because I promised Arya I’d teach her a few sword moves in the yard but you know, we couldn’t be caught and so on, except that the moment we get there we hear screaming from the inside of the castle and so on, so we get there and His Royal Highness Joffrey Baratheon is throwing a fit because he _did_ ask Clegane to kill that boy and he _didn’t_ and what good is a guard who doesn’t immediately follow his orders even if they’re _that_ stupid?”

“Wait, _what_? And the king wanted me to _marry_ him?”

“I know,” Robb says, “but never mind that. So, the queen of course backs the kid up and the king starts joking that maybe the time has come to rid his court of heartless knights since he sort of did that with the Kingslayer anyway —”

“Robb, he _didn’t_ —”

“Right, right, with Jaime Lannister, _whatever._ So, they dismiss the guy right there and then, with Father and Mother being completely taken aback, and he looked — well. On one side he certainly wasn’t relishing that job, on the other he did look like someone did kick him in the guts, and at that point I decided that it was a moment ripe for taking, so the moment the royals thankfully left, I went up to Father and said that the guy looked like a competent fighter and both you and Arya could need a guard at some point and heartless or not he _did_ seem to have a conscience and he had come this far, so _we_ could take him in our service.”

Considering how Robb is smirking —

“Wait,” Sansa says, “you haven’t —”

“It didn’t take much to convince them,” Robb grins back, “and Arya is adamant that she doesn’t need a guard, so if I were you I would go and start to make him understand that you’re a way better charge than Joffrey, _at least_.”

“Robb, you’re —”

“A gift from the gods? I sure as the Seven Hells hope you think that until we’re dead and gone,” he says, quirking a smile and — right.

 _All right_. She needs to get ready for breaking her fast now.

— —

She braids her hair, wears a good dress and goes downstairs. Clegane is nowhere to be seen, but asking around, she learns that he’s apparently in the courtyard. She takes a small plate of food, then brings it outside.

“Ser,” she says, “you shouldn’t exert yourself without having eaten.”

He looks at her like he can’t even _fathom_ she’s there. “You — _you_ shouldn’t do that. And I’m —”

“No ser, I know,” she smiles back. “I would still like to be courteous. And I mislike calling people like dogs.” Then she bows slightly and leaves him there. No point pressing, for now.

— —

She does it for the next three days. On the fourth, he sits next to her at dinner because he _has_ to, after Arya declares she doesn’t need any sworn sword and so Father just sighs and tells him to keep an eye on Sansa instead.

“Ser,” she smiles. “Good evening.”

“How many times — never mind. Good evening, I fucking guess.” He’s not trying so hard to hide his face now. Sansa makes the point of not looking down. She’s looked at him from afar long enough and if it was, well, a _sight_ before, now she’s adjusted to it. It’s certainly not _the problem_. For that matter, the more she looks at him the more she thinks she _likes_ him. He’s tall, he’s obviously strong, and maybe she has wondered how it would feel if he held her in her arms and picked her up, and she definitely has blushed in the darkness of her room picturing Sandor kissing her _as_ he lifts her up, and — well. The whole side of his face is downright handsome, for that matter, way more than Joffrey could say for himself — at least _Sandor_ doesn’t look like some kind of spoiled child who still pouts to try and get what he wants, and as far as the other side goes, the more she looks at it the more she thinks it kind of… _fits_ with the rest of him. It’s a bit intimidating still, sure, but — it’s scars. It’s really nothing _that_ bad. And the more time passes the more she’s sure she _likes_ him in that sense, and she feels that if only he’d stop being so guarded she’d like everything else that she’s _not_ seeing as well.

Now if only she could find a way to get him to talk to her instead of sticking to those vague answers where he always sounds like he doesn’t know what to do with her.

— —

“Honestly,” Joffrey spits Robb’s way two days later while they spar, at the master at arms’s insistence, even if Robb had tried to get out of it, “is your family taking in all the bloody spoils or what?”

Sansa can _feel_ Sandor going stiff behind her. It’s just — she _can_.

“What,” Robb says, blocking him, “your _former_ sworn sword? Seems to me like Father would be an idiot not taking in his service someone with _those_ skills just because he has a conscience.”

Sansa is pretty sure the surprise she feels is not _hers_. It’s _his_ , it has to be his —

“Can’t imagine how humiliating must be to trail behind your _little sister_ ,” Joffrey goes on, and then Sansa feels a spike of anger that’s not _hers_ —

“I don’t know,” Robb replies, “if I were a guard, I’d take _your_ little sister over you.”

And then he proceeds to disarm Joffrey in a move, and Joffrey’s with his back on the ground looking up at Robb murderously while Sansa lets out a breath of relief. Sandor isn’t as tense anymore.

“You know,” she says, “my brother’s an excellent judge of character.”

“A real novelty,” Sandor mutters.

Thing is —

He’s not lying. Gods, _he’s not lying_.

— —

It takes another week of that song and dance — she sings to him every night still even if he doesn’t know it, she makes a point of _looking at him_ if they talk, she calls him _Ser_ even if he tells her not to, she’s perfectly courteous to him regardless of the circumstance, Joffrey keeps on looking at them as if he despises their existence and Robb keeps on telling her to just _tell him,_ but Sansa isn’t really so sure she wants to, not for now, and so she doesn’t.

Up until another dinner where, as they polish the last lemon cakes, Joffrey casually says that if he needs to get a new guard then he wants Sandor’s brother, _he_ could have followed orders.

Sansa feels a distinct need to throw up at once that doesn’t come from her, and a moment later Sandor excuses himself and leaves the room, and at that point she only waits as much as possible to not look too suspicious and the moment Robb clears his throat and starts distracting everyone else on purpose she slips out of the room, clutching her shawl around her shoulders, and running outside.

She has to find him, she _has to_ —

He’s in the godswood, of course he is, and she’s not surprised when she sees he’s punched a heart tree hard enough that his hand is as bright red as the bark in front of him.

“Ser?” She asks, and then he turns to look at her with those large, _deep_ gray eyes --

“What the _fuck_ are you even doing here?” He asks, still sounding tired.

“That was unfair of him to say,” she goes on, moving closer. “And I don’t know much about your brother but what I do — well. I don’t know who would want a guard who killed a woman and her children the way he did with Princess Elia, but — it just shows that you’re better off without him. If I can say.”

He shakes his head, moving closer. “ _Why_ would you even care?” He rasps, sounding like he can barely believe she does “You shouldn’t, there is no bloody reason why you would, and you have no idea of what my brother even is —”

“Tell me,” she says, finding the boldness somewhere within her, and at that he laughs so bitterly she has to flinch.

“As if,” he says, “you would want to know.”

“Try me,” she goes on, that boldness suddenly taking hold of her —

He kneels down, then finally looks at her straight, not hiding the ruined half of his face anymore.

“See _that_?” He says. “Huh. You _do_. I will give you credit, most people can’t stand looking at it. I was seven.”

“ _Seven_?”

He shrugs, his voice suddenly becoming so detached it’s almost scary —

“There was this toymaker who came to — my father’s lands, back then. He sent a lot of them up to the castle, to get his favor, I guess. Gregor was five years older and almost as tall as I am _now_ , he’s taller now. He cared nothing for them, I knew, and so I took one of his for myself, even if I should have listened to that part of myself telling me I should have kept my hands to myself. He found out. Didn’t take it well. He took it so badly he grabbed my face and put it on the damned stove until it was like _this_ , and you know what my fucking father did? Said _my bedding caught on fire_.” He snorts, shaking his head again, and Sansa’s stomach is curling on itself in dread and anger and _bitterness_ and sadness and she can feel it, _oh_ she can feel it, and it’s all his, isn’t it —

“No one did shit about it, of course. I don’t even know why I was expecting anyone to. Meanwhile my honorable brother kept on doing Tywin Lannister’s bidding and before he even performed his fucking admirable deeds during the Rebellion, bloody Rhaegar Targaryen decides that _he_ is worthy of a fucking knighthood. He even came to our castle to bestow it on him. I had to hear him tell my brother to kneel, I heard him swear that he’d protect women and children and innocent and then _arise Ser Gregor_ , from — from the fucking crown prince that the entire realm thought fair and just and so on. And throughout the entire damned thing I still had my damned heart, fat lot of good it did to me, until the Rebellion was over, and I still had it after I killed my first man during the sack of King’s Landing, and I still had it while everyone decided I was some kind of worse fearsome killer because my brother was fearsome but _with the face I had_ I most likely was about to succeed him in being worse.” He takes a breath as Sansa feels bile rise up in her throat and his voice still feels flat, so _flat_ —

“That is, until his lordship Tywin Lannister decided that his eldest son was as good as dead because he didn’t have the damned heart and decided _I_ should guard his fucking daughter and her equally terrible son who was around… three, I think. First she told me to please never show her _this_ side of my face, then His Royal Fucking Highness decides that I don’t look — well. _Like a man_ , surely he took that from how his mother calls her _other_ brother. So if I was to guard him I might as well be his hound, and it went then. The fucking heart, I mean. And you heard what reputation I have. All thanks to my fucking brother, who is most likely not accepting a Kingsguard position just because he doesn’t want to give up his inheritance. What, you still think you should have known?”

Sansa swallows that bile that doesn’t belong to her down, then looks back up at him, and without even thinking she moves a hand to his shoulder and grasps at the muscle under the cloak.

“He’s no true knight,” she says, her voice steady, and she feels the moment she completely surprises him, because she _knows_ he didn’t expect it, and she holds his stare, thinking that he really has lovely eyes when he’s not grimacing, and his mouth barely parts —

“He never was,” he agrees, his voice slightly less dead now, his head slightly shaking, as if he can’t believe she’s still here —

“Ser,” she says again, and he doesn’t correct her, even if she feels he hadn’t expected that either, “do you know where — you said your heart, left, right?”

“Good thing it did,” he rasps, “no idea what I’d fucking be like if I still could get as angry as I used to before it went. I just hope it went to no one. Or that they threw it out. It was no use. And it was probably beyond salvation, who _cares_.”

“I think I do,” she says.

He snorts. “ _Why_ would you?”

“You’re in my service, after all,” she says. “Are you _really_ sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? For -- _my lady_ ,” he spits, sounding as if he’s pained now, “just let it go. It’s not worth it. And while you are certainly a fucking improvement over _Joffrey Baratheon_ , you don’t have to pretend you fucking care. Don’t sing me these pretty courteous songs when you don’t mean them.”

“I think,” she says, “that it’s too late for that.”

He gasps. “ _What_?”

She clears her throat, singing softly —

_He was a knight of famous name,_

_The owner of Furious sword_

_But now he's a fool with motley shield_

_Because of cutting word_

_Despite of misery and fate,_

_Pride's what he feels for real_

_He'll care about vows he gave_

_With blade of Valyrian steel —_

“What the —” He starts, and she stops at once, but she _had_ seen recognition in his eyes. She _had_ seen it —

“Oh,” she says, “so you know that?”

“ _Everyone_ knows that dumb song, it’s not —”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” she says. “What was that you were about to say before?”

He lowers his stare towards the hand she has pressed to her dress — the other is still on his shoulder.

“I thought —” He whispers, “— sometimes, I thought I heard someone singing _that_ and a few others, but — I didn’t even let myself consider that it might be — I thought I fucking made it up.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t,” and then, “please come upstairs,” she whispers.

“I couldn’t, fuck, it’s not —”

“I think you should,” she says. “I have something to give you. I know I do. And I think you know that too, don’t you?”

She can feel his shoulder shaking under her fingers, but then he gives her a curt nod and stands up.

Good.

— —

She runs upstairs, making sure no one is following them, then opens the door and lets him in, then closes it behind her.

She’s not surprised to see him stand so very still in the middle of the room, his eyes staring at the heart resting on her nightstand.

“You — _you_ had it all along?” He whispers, sounding like he’s about to faint.

“Yes,” she says, moving to the nightstand and taking it into her hands, delicately. “And I didn’t think of throwing it away for one single moment, if you’re asking yourself that.”

He shakes his head again. “It’s — _why_ wouldn’t you? Look at that, it’s even — shit. Half of it is _dead_ , for —”

“The other half is very much not,” she says, “and considering that this whole red part always became less — _less_ when I sang, forgive me if I am skeptical of how terrible people say you are.”

He keeps on saying nothing, slightly shaking his head.

Sansa wonders if _this_ is how Brienne of Tarth had felt when it was her turn. The songs on the topic _all_ seem very much in a agreement on the fact that she had been ready for it and that she knew that her man’s heart was very much _good_ and that she had been steadfast and sure but also excited when she gave it back to him, and that it had been that kind of perfect moment people never assume exists in real life but actually _does_ happen once in a while. Maybe if she ever passes by here, she will ask. But it’s… the way she’s feeling now, she thinks. She _wants_ to give it back to him, and she knows what she’s seen in it, and she’s _felt_ it in her hands for years. He just has to agree to it, and then, well.

Then she’s sure it _will_ go smoothly, like in the songs. It _has_ to.

“So,” she says, “I think I’ve had it for too long. And I think you want it back.”

“This is — you _know_ that if your father knows it’s _me_ —”

“My brother knows it’s you,” she says, “why do you think _he_ was the one suggesting keeping you here?”

“He’s _in favor_ of this?”

“He’s had his issues with _his_ intended,” Sansa smiles. “He gets it. And my father will have to listen to reason. So,” she asks, “Ser —”

“Please, _don’t_ ,” he says, sounding pained.

Well then.

“ _Sandor_ ,” she says, and she can feel the sharp intake of breath coming from him — “I don’t think I can reach that high to give it back. Will you kneel?”

She feels her stomach clench all over again in _abject fear_ , and she knows it’s not coming from her.

Well then.

He nods once, kneeling slowly, until he’s right in front of her, opening his shirt just enough to show the left side of his breast, and she can see scars all over him but that’s quite all right, she had figured he would have some, and so what if the moment she places the heart delicately on his breast and it glows, the whole of it, even the dead half, before it moves back inside his chest, she feels like she dropped inside one of those songs she’s loved since she could remember? She lets her fingertips linger on his chest, brushing over an old scar, and he gasps loudly the moment the glow disappears.

She can feel his heartbeat start again, slow and then faster and _faster_ , and when he looks up at her again his eyes are half wet and the candlelight makes the burned side of his face look like it’s covered in blood, but it doesn’t — it doesn’t feel _wrong_. Actually, the more she looks at it the more she thinks she likes the sight of it, and he doesn’t tell her to stop when she puts a hand on his shoulder again. And the other —

She breathes in before she lightly brushes her fingertips over his ruined cheekbone.

He gasps louder.

“Does it hurt?” She asks, stopping.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, it’s only — no one has touched it since.” He doesn’t sound _dead_ now.

She can _feel_ how painful it is for him to say it. She touches it a bit more firmly. “Do you know why I’m _sure_ of this now?”

He nods once, not moving away. “It’s not — I don’t — it feels right, doesn’t it,” he says, sounding unsure all over again, as if he can’t even conceive it.

“It does,” she nods. “It did since the moment I realized that it was you. And about _that_ , I think you owe me something.”

He goes tense again. “What?”

“Nothing excessive,” she smiles. “See, I did dream about finding the person that heart belonged to. The songs are very specific about what usually happens now. They were even before people started singing about what happened at court lately in detail.”

He nods. “I suppose you’d know that,” he says, sounding maybe a bit fond.

“Well. I gave you a song every evening since I’ve had it,” she says, the hand on his shoulder moving to the uncovered piece of skin where she can feel his heartbeat, tapping over it twice. “It wasn’t a hardship. But I think I earned my kiss now, didn’t I?”

“You _earned your kiss_.”

“Every fair maiden who gives her knight his heart back gets one,” she smiles a bit wider. “You surely wouldn’t let me go without?”

“What are you now giving people songs, a little bird?” He huffs, but he doesn’t sound angry, and when one of his large, rough hands cups her face she exhales in relief.

“Maybe I am,” she doesn’t disagree. “And I don’t give _anyone_ songs. So, my kiss?”

“I suppose I _do_ owe you one,” he says, and she closes his eyes as he moves forward, and —

She doesn’t know what she had expected. Maybe that he would be a little rough, a little harsh, and she might have looked forward to it because the idea made her blood rush hotter the few times she considered it —

But then his mouth presses against hers so gently, she feels _her_ own heartbeat go faster as he caresses her lips with his half-burned ones and doesn’t _take_ it, just — stays firm and gentle and strong at the same time, like all the gallant knights in those songs, and when he moves back he’s not quite looking at her but the whole side of his face is maybe flushing a bit in the candle light.

“Was that what your ladyship was fucking looking for?” He says, still not quite looking at her.

“It was everything I was looking for,” she says, and then she moves forward and kisses _him_ instead as he still kneels in front of her, and she can feel that he doesn’t believe her _fully_ , not yet —

But that’s quite all right. He’s at _her_ service after all, which means she has all the time in the world to convince him of the contrary. Sure, they have to tell Father, but she’s not worried about that, not when she knows Robb will have her side, and so for now she just thinks about how _good_ it feels to finally kiss him and to have him _here_ and to not wonder where he is every night, and when he asks her if she’d sing one last song with a voice that she can barely hear in the silence of the room, she says that it doesn’t have to be the last before she gives it to him, and as his hand tentatively finds hers, she just knows he’s the right one.

And she’s not disappointed she’s waited this long.

End


End file.
